Chapter Text
“Okay, everybody, shut up!” Ilya banged on the table, and the crowd went silent. It was a comical scene: the Centaurs and their partners, all dressed in rainbow-striped party hats and holding noisemakers and confetti, solemnly turning toward where Ilya stood on a chair with his arms raised.. The table at the far end of the deck was laden with gifts: treats, rope toys, stuffed animals. Anya snuffled around the selection before yanking an empty box down onto the deck. Shane stifled a laugh; Ilya had wanted Anya to feel special today, but even as the star of the evening, she cared more about a small square of cardboard.
“Thank you all for coming today,” Ilya began. Anya’s tail began to wag, and she trotted over to Ilya to show him her new toy. He paused in his speech to hop off his chair and kneel beside her. He took her face in his hands and pressed their noises together. “Yes, Anya! Look at you! Smart, pretty girl!”
A chorus of “get a room, Roz”s was followed quickly by Evan yelling, “Dude, your husband is right there.”
Ilya ignored them, stroking Anya’s fur. “Anya is our perfect girl. The team’s favorite dog–”
“Hold on. Second favorite dog!” Troy interrupted with a huff—though he was smiling.
Harris’s eyes twinkled as he added, “Yeah! Justice for Chiron!”
Shane watched as Ilya pondered the interruption. The rest of the guests, some hanging their heads in shame, echoed that Chiron was the dog of the Ottawa Centaurs. After a moment, Ilya nodded as well. “Yes. You are right. The team’s second favorite dog. But she came to me in a time when I needed a friend. And you all wanted to be my friends, too. But I would not let you.” His eyes scanned the crowd and came to rest on Shane. Shane thought his heart might stop as Ilya winked at him. “I am thankful that now we get to be friends, and I can share my most favorite person with all of you.”
“Here, here!” Wyatt shouted, and the rest of the Centaurs lifted their glasses.
As Ilya pulled out the cake that he had gotten at The Bark-ery, a boutique downtown that “specialized in safe baked goods for your furry friends,” according to their website, Shane called Anya off to the side; he didn’t trust that she wouldn’t attack the treat as soon as it was set down. Zane came up to him, party hat tilted slightly sideways on his head. He nodded toward Ilya as he squatted down beside Anya and started giving her back scratches. “Happiness looks good on Cap, doesn’t it? He’s lighter than he was before, now that he has Anya and you.”
Shane examined the easy way Ilya smiled at the cake, crow lines deeply etched around his eyes, and nodded. “I can’t take credit for this one, I think.” Anya butted her head against his hand, and he absentmindedly scratched behind her ears. “That was all her.”
***
Ilya Rozanov ✅ | @ilyarozanov81
peanut butter is anya’s favorite
Image Description: a close up of a Polaroid photo. In it, Anya sits–as best as she can–on Shane’s lap, eyes wide and tongue fully flopped out of her mouth at the camera. In front of them, a cake shaped like a bone sits on the table of their deck. On it, “We love you!,” is piped in alternating red and black letters. Several Centaurs players and their wives can be seen in the background, sporting party paraphernalia and laughing. Scrawled along the bottom of the picture, almost covered by a smear of frosting, is “Anya’s First Gotcha Day Party - 4/24/2022.”
“And we really need to–” Shane broke off his rant about play-off strategy mid-sentence, cocking his head at the soft smile stretching across Ilya’s face. Ilya laid, stretched out, across the bench, one arm draped over the edge and the other lazily turning a stick with a marshmallow over the fire. Shane’s face grew hot when Ilya refused to break their eye contact. “What are you smiling at?”
Ilya’s smile widened; Shane’s favorite dimple appeared, and his stomach swooped. “You,” Ilya murmured. He grazed the fingers of his free hand along Shane’s jaw, stopping to press his thumb into the hollow of Shane’s neck. Shane forgot how to breathe.
“What about me?” He whispered, the flames of heat from his face licking their way down his spine.
Ilya’s smile turned feral at the edges, the way it did when he was on the ice. “Just you. The way you talk about boring hockey plays like it is the most interesting thing in the world. The way your freckles dance in the firelight. The way you look in that shirt.” Shane glanced down at his shirt; it was an old practice tee of Ilya’s, from his time in Boston. It had ridden up, showing a stripe of Shane’s midriff, and Ilya’s free hand trace along the waistband of Shane’s shorts.
“It’s just a–” Shane tried to articulate his thoughts, which were starting to stutter out of control.
“I was thinking about taking a walk,” Ilya interrupted, gesturing to the woods. “And, maybe, if you’re good…” He left the ending dangling.
Shane glanced toward his parents, sitting at the patio table and yelling over a game of Yahtzee. He almost gave in to the want that had taken root in his core–until he noticed it. “Hey, Ilya?”
The lust in Ilya’s eyes was unmistakeable. “Yes, moya polovinka?”
“Your marshmallow’s on fire.”
***
Ilya Rozanov ✅ | @ilyarozanov81
Happy birthday, moy lyubov 💙
Image Description: a close up of a Polaroid photo. In it, Shane and Ilya sit side by side on the bench beside the firepit. Shane’s hands are tangled in Ilya’s hair, and the set of Ilya’s lips and crinkle in his eyes as he stares up at Shane shows that Shane has said something particularly funny. A discarded marshmallow sits by Ilya’s ankle, scorched beyond recognition. Scrawled along the bottom of the picture, along with sticky thumbprints, is “The Marshmallow Incident - 5/10/2022.”
“Shanya! I am home!” Ilya called out as he struggled to work his key out of the front door, balancing two large reusable totes on each forearm. Instead of a hello from Shane or the pitter patter of Anya on the hardwood, Ilya was greeted with silence. He frowned, peering into the darkness of their home. “Shane?”
The house creaked in response. He took a few shallow steps further into the foyer, his brow furrowing. Shane’s car had been in the garage, his tennis shoes were neatly stacked in their cubby, and Anya’s leash was on its usual hook, which meant that Shane had to be somewhere in the house.
“Are we playing a game? Naked hide and seek?” There was a soft groan from the living room, and Ilya grinned wolfishly. In the near-dark, he couldn’t see much–just outlines and shapes–, but he stalked toward the sound.
“Okay. I am putting away groceries, and…” Ilya stopped at the sound and–arms still laden with bags–grabbed Shane from the floor and hauled him up for a deep kiss.
“Surprise!” The lights flashed on, and Ilya blinked at the chorus of voices and the man–NOT his husband, as he’d assumed–before him, blushing a fiery red and trying to wriggle out of his arms.
“PIKE?!” Ilya shoved Hayden away from him quickly. His bags tumbled out of his arms to the floor as he desperately began to scrape at his tongue with his fingernails. “Shanya, I need mouthwash immediately, please. I–”
He stopped short when he fully took in the living room. It was festooned in streamers, crepe paper, balloons, and confetti. People had popped out from everywhere: behind their plush sectional, around the floor-to-ceiling drapes that covered their windows, descending from the top of the staircase—everyone Ilya had ever cared about. The Centaurs and the WAGs, but also Marlow and St. Simon. Hayden and Jackie and J.J. Sveta. Rose. Mama Yuna and David. Fabian and Ryan. Scott Hunter and Kip.
And, of course, Shane, holding a bouquet of daisies and smiling at Ilya as though he was liquid gold.
Ilya felt blinked back the tears welling in his eyes as he looked out over the crowd. He wanted to bottle the feeling that was swelling, achingly, in his chest. He could live off this moment forever—even if he had accidentally kissed Hayden Pike.
On the wall was a giant banner that read, “Happy birthday, Ilya! We love you!” The rest of the wall was plastered with cutouts of Ilya’s face, some grinning maniacally at an unseen enemy on the ice, others showing the soft, gentle eyes that he had for Shane alone. Ilya’s mouth worked to try to form some kind of coherent thought, but all he could muster was, “Uh. Hello, everyone.”
The guests cheered, and party was immediately in swing. Within two hours, Ilya had bested Marlow in a game of Twister; done tequila shots on the deck with David, Harris, and Rose; had a full-blown argument about the results of the newest season of Love Island, in Russian, with Svetlana; eaten his weight in the barbecue that the Boodrams had brought over; and, finally, found a quiet spot away from the party to sit and recover from the shock and adrenaline that was quickly crashing down around him.
“So,” Shane smirked as he sat beside Ilya on the outdoor sectional. He held his hand out for the joint Ilya was smoking expectantly. Ilya scowled and went to stub it out, but Shane grabbed it from him instead and took a long drag. When Ilya raised and eyebrow, Shane just shrugged and blew the smoke out in response. “Naked hide and seek, huh? And with Hayden, no less?”
Ilya snatched the joint back, harrumphing, but he couldn’t keep the smile from his face for long. “You did this for me?”
“Of course.” Shane smiled softly, bringing his thumb to the hinge of Ilya’s jaw and rubbing small circles into it. Ilya nuzzled into Shane’s hand, sighing. “We’ve never gotten to celebrate your birthday—not like this, anyway. You deserve a proper birthday party.” Shane blushed, before murmuring, “And more.”
“And more? Hollander, I would love to know what this dirty plan is,” Ilya tried to hide behind his bravado, but he knew that Shane could see right to his core. His heart was on his sleeve, where it never was, and his stomach was in knots.
“Mind out of the gutter, Rozanov. I have one more surprise for you.” From behind his back, Shane pulled out a small gift, wrapped in simple, tan butcher paper and bundled with twine. “It’s nothing big or fancy or expensive, but I think you’ll like it.”
Ilya’s eyebrow quarked again, and he stubbed out his joint and placed it in the arm of the couch. Shane deposited the gift into his lap, and he quickly tore off the wrappings. The gift was a small, golden frame. Inside was a picture of…
“Where did you find this?” Ilya could barely choke the words out.
“Svetlana called in some favors for me. Asked Sasha to ask his dad if he had any photos of the two of you from your early playing days. He found this in a photo album his wife had made years ago.”
The frame held a picture of Ilya and Irina. In it, Ilya was about five or six, bundled in a heavy coat and hunting cap and wobbling on the ice of a pond. He was reaching up for his mother, just out of reach. She grinned down at him, arms outstretched, lips parted to show her halfway through some encouragement. Even in the blurry, poorly lit photo, Ilya’s mother was beautiful: blonde curls escaped her hat and splayed across her scarf; her posture was ramrod straight and elegant; her blue eyes seemed to twinkle at her son. Engraved along the bottom of the frame was “Она живет в твоем сердце”: she lives in your heart.
She did, and everyone at this party did, too. The thought made Ilya weep.
It was the best birthday he’d ever had.
***
Shane Hollander ✅ | @therealshanehollander
31 looks so good on you. 💜
Image Description: a close up of a Polaroid photo. In it, Ilya stands in the living room of the Hollander-Rozanov home; his hands cover his mouth, and his blue eyes shine under a sheen of tears. Ilya’s bags of groceries lay on the floor, wholly forgotten; an apple spilled out and seems to be in motion, rolling away from the unfolding chaos. Hayden stands beside him, tongue out in disgust. The edges of the photo are blurred as people run toward Ilya at all angles. Scrawled along the bottom of the picture in neat print is “Ilya’s Surprise Party ♡ - 5/10/2022.”
“So am I allowed to say I told you so and help you now, or…”
Ilya huffed. “Is not my fault that sun in Italy is hotter than sun in Ottawa! And in Moscow! And in Boston!”
Shane fought the urge to roll his eyes as he gently peeled Ilya’s tank top up and over his head. Ilya whimpered as he raised his arms, his eyes narrowing, and Shane gave him a look. “So sorry. I forgot that you’d never seen the sun before. It’s not like you’re a professional hockey player who travels to warmer climates all year or anything like that.”
“Wow, now you’re mister comedian?” Ilya crossed his arms, then let out a whine and uncrossed them. On each bicep, a stark white handprint sat against a sea of bright red. Without thinking, Shane reached out, mesmerized, to trace his finger along the outline, and Ilya let out a shriek and slapped his hand away. “No! First you laugh at me, and then you try to make it hurt more! I do not need help from a comedian and murderer.”
Jade and Ruby looked up from where they were snuggled together on the couch, watching Bluey on their tablet. “Uncle Ilya, you’re being dramatic,” Ruby said sternly, shaking her head.
“Yeah. Mom and dad and Uncle Shane all said you should wear sunscreen,” Jade added sagely. “Uncle Shane even helped us put on our sunscreen. He would have helped you. Now you look kind of like Crabby.” To emphasize her point, Jade held up her stuffed crab, squinting at it as if to compare the crimson of the stuffy to the scarlet of Ilya’s skin. Somewhere in the kitchen of their rental house, Jackie and Hayden could be heard snorting back laughter.
Ilya looked from Ruby to Jade, lips pulled into a pout and eyebrows drawn together. “Even you have forsaken me, jewel girls?” He let out a long sight and cast his eyes toward the floor, slumping. “I see I have been bested.”
Shane grinned, reaching for the bottle on the side table. “I promise it will make you feel better, big baby. As he opened it, he added in Ilya’s ear, “And maybe I can give you a different kind of medicine when Jackie and Hayden take the kids out to dinner.”
Ilya perked back up immediately, grinning widely. “I think that will help, yes.”
***
Ilya Rozanov ✅ | @ilyarozanov81
our first anniversary ❤️ my husband is even hotter than my sunburn
Image Description: a close up of a Polaroid photo, shakily taken by the hands of a child. In it, Shane’s face is in profile, eyes to the sky and lips pursed as his hands work into Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya gazes toward the camera, clearly mouthing some variation of “Help Me!” A bottle of aloe sits on the table beside them, and green slime is slathered on other parts of Ilya’s back and arms. Scrawled along the bottom of the picture in nearly illegible handwriting—and with some of the letters backwards, too—is “Sun - 1; Unkle Lia - 0 - 7/10/2022.”